I find it hard to believe it
but I'm an emotional paraplegic
no feeling from the neck down
I would only think
never crack a smile or a frown
locked my emotions in the closet
while I let my thoughts go to town.

I'm entering a phase of restoration
having more than physical sensation
when I engage in *******

before I was an illegal assembly line
but now these feelings are real and these feelings are mine
I was severely understaffed and had to discontinue the emotion station
but now my internal economy is fixed and I'm getting slave labor from underage Haitians.

We think we matter
as if we can climb the latter
and that we can gather
more than a splatter
of value
but imma tall you
we march the earth thinking we are such a hottie
but we are just sloppy carbon copies
inferior souls in these tiny sloppy bodies
and we could not be
any less original
just strands of digital
recycled coding
whether its sunny, rainy, or snowing
we just keep blowing
our own horns.

Everything I bottle up instead of confess
is crushing me until I'm a compressed
cracked shell of a man and a complete utter mess
Not going to let it sit and fill me with stress
everything that bothers me I must detest
or what is left of me will become less and less
until I become a pawn in a twisted game of chess
people say I shouldn't dwell on these things and I should digress
but if I don't vent i feel like I will lose the color in my iris
and never be able to get my rest
and I will lose everything like Miley Cyrus
or feel like I'm repeatedly being jabbed like a touch screen by a stylus
overall leaving myself asking one question: "Why this?"

Picking my pieces of the floor trying to get it together
let my sad little words composed of sad little letters
do everything they can to cheer themselves up and fell a little better
doing my best to convince myself that I really do matter
searching for the words of sanity in this unstable chatter
because the floor is ******* lava and I'm climbing a latter
to bring myself away from these thoughts and to an effective distractor.

I'm getting out the tools, now I'm oiling joints
I'm usually smooth like a liquid, but now I've reached my boiling point
Head out the door after I grab my bag, here are the contents:
A knife, a gun, lots of anger, and plenty of discouraging comments.
To say I'm ****** is quite an understatement
now get out here so I can spread you across the pavement
I finally figured out what all of this pain meant
Was living in an apartment of forgiveness, but now I refuse to pay rent.
so stay bent
get a skull dent
I'll crucify you on a chain fence
Use your bones and your skin to make a maim tent.